Back on Familiar Soil

When I arrived back in the land of the Peoria, Kickapoo, Odawa, and Potawatomi nations of Turtle Island (aka the Midwestern USA), the trees and flowers waved to me. This is the place I lived for decades of my young and middle adulthood. The Brown-Eyed Susans nod their welcome. The maples swing their branches hello. Along the train tracks and highways the Queen Anne’s Lace bob and sway. I feel waves of love and affection as I reunite with the plant life here. I am filled with somatic memories of the middle third of my life, the joys, the lessons, and the sorrows.

Gone are the succulents and bromeliads of the monsoon rainforest of Chittaranjan Vatika, siblings of the plants of my subtropical Waimānalo home. Now I am among the drought-hardy, deciduous plants of Illinois.

The people have also turned over. Gone are the airports populated with Muslim families and Arab voices. No more Marathi and Hindi filling the air. Most of the shades of Brown and Black skin are gone. For the first time in what feels like years, I am among majority white folks, a situation rarely occurring in the occupied Hawaiian nation. I’m no longer used to the rounded r’s, pale white calves, blue eyes.

When I left my marriage in 2010, 95% of my friends stopped contacting me. It’s not like they broke up with me or rejected me, they just quietly stopped reaching out to me. I was deeply established in my white community, as a poet, dancer, mother, and Iyengar Yoga teacher. I had “achieved” a certain level of status and respect in the city of Milwaukee. Frankly, I was valued as a safe POC. Not too radical, not scary, but middle class, educated, and assimilated. But when I left my marriage, after some years of becoming more visibly and vocally radical, the community—mainstream, white—seemed to know that my decision to divorce my husband signified something much larger than a personal relationship. It represented a decision to leave behind the dominant culture. Not just the stability of my marriage, but my foothold in capitalism, the status earned in white culture and the arts, plus the trappings of neoliberalism.

I told one of the few friends who stuck by me, a Black woman, that I felt abandoned and alone in the absence of my marriage, and all it represented. I told her I felt like I was on a boat, all alone, in the middle of an immense ocean. She said, “But the rest of us are on another island, waving to you, saying, come on over, you can do it, keep paddling!”

I have devoted myself to that island, a place of resistance, a place of revolution. We have rejected many of the teachings we were indoctrinated into. We embrace interdependence rather than individuality, radical abundance rather than competitive scarcity, solidarity rather than charity. Currently, I live on a farm in solidarity with the Southeast Asian community. In truth, it’s messy and imperfect, but it provides a framework to live more intimately with the `āina, surrounded by mountains, forests, ocean, and the Kanaka maoli community.

So to be back in Potawatomi nation feels….awkward, like coming back to a past relationship. Yes, it’s beautiful, I love it and appreciate it. But neither do I feel completely at home.

Besides the land, the people represent a different matter. Can I re-adapt to white culture? What does that look like and what does that mean? I feel reluctant and cautious. Can I relate to white culture differently than I did when I was younger? Can I overcome the internalized pressure to assimilate, and instead be fully myself, without fetishizing or exoticizing or capitulating? This is the first time I’m back in Urbana since March 2020, right before the global shutdown. So much has happened since then.

We have all grown much more intimate with death. The COVID pandemic has not truly ended, and may never completely wane. We all have friends and loved ones we have lost to the virus. We are all that much closer to our own mortality. Additionally we survived the election of 2020 in the USA, which brought an end to the Trump rampage, but revealed a failed democracy, resulting in an evermore split and polarized society, an extremist Supreme Court, and responsibility for the current war crimes of the worst genocide in ages, sending USA bombs to Israel. Yesterday alone, 66 Palestinians were killed, including 36 at a field hospital full of refugees.

However, denial and individualism persist as the trademark of the dominant white culture. Urbana remains an idyllic university enclave. I rode my friend’s bike through the loveliest of neighborhoods, filled with 100-year-old houses, mature trees, even cobblestones. But on some level my body experiences it as violence.

My most superficial outer body feels at ease, surrounded by beauty, calmness, and spaciousness, especially in comparison to the bustling crowds of Pune, India. But the somatic layer below that feels suspicious: why is it so quiet and seemingly peaceful here when so much of the planet is being devastated? What imbalance do I need to discern and address?

The deepest layer of somatic experience recognizes our unity as living beings, the graciousness and regenerative power of the `āina, and the inner infinite, puruśa. But I cannot deny that middle layer of consciousness which perceives the extreme imbalance and unease among the people.

This week of Lois Steinberg’s Iyengar Yoga intensive will be a study of these layers for me. I vow to never forget or disregard my siblings and cousins in other parts of the world, who are suffering. I vow to direct whatever healing power I can muster, not just to my own healing, but also to the greater cause of solidarity. I strive to recognize more and more ways I can direct my energy to the alleviating of suffering globally. We each have more power than we recognize or utilize. Collectively we can achieve anything, if only we could prioritize our greater communities over individual comforts. May it be so.

Giving my hands to struggle

Tomorrow I leave India. This month has been an absolute privilege. I've been able to devote myself to rest, healing, nourished with joy and insight, friendships old and new, and deep immersion in sadhana and sangha. Yesterday I started packing, to make sure I had adequate luggage space, and to mentally begin the transition to the States.

As sad as I am to be leaving, my seventh pilgrimage to India and RIMYI, I am also feeling ready. Just as my body yearned for my children when I had to leave them to come and study when they were young, my body is starving for the embrace of my grandchildren. I miss Solomon's drool and runny nose, and his ear-piercing shouts. I miss Silas's stories and playing Hotwheels with him. I miss my conversations with Coco and our cartwheels and imaginary games.

I also miss my people. I need to feel my feet on the ground in active resistance to the devastation and oppression happening in this moment. The official death toll in Gaza nears 40,000. Sonya Massey has been murdered in cold blood by the state--SAY HER NAME. MF Netanyahu addresses Congress and is met with standing ovations. 

These are the times I know I will never be a pure yogi. I am not temperamentally suited to retreat fully into abhyasa and vairagya, practice and renunciation. My body longs for my drum to bang on at protests and rallies. It kills me to be missing so many events in occupied Hawai`i, resisting the military wargames of RIMPAC, and demanding citizen's arrest of Netanyahu at the State Capitol. My vocal chords cannot be fully satisfied only chanting the invocation to Patañjali. I cannot fully channel my tapas into yogic devotion. I need my feet to be pounding the pavement in solidarity with the people. I am ready to re-enter the fray.

I need my yoga practice to daily purify myself for warriorship. I need to daily metabolize and process the unspeakable shit that is thrown at us, and make myself robust enough to withstand it, speak out, and act decisively.

The spiritual path leads too easily to bypassing. Yes, we are all one, and Trump, Biden, and Netanyahu are all projections of myself. Yes, the `āina belongs to no one, and we are all indigenous to some place. Yes, we can save no one and it's not our responsibility to do someone else's spiritual work.

But, DAMN.....

I cannot stand by and be silent in the face of state violence. I cannot witness the mauling of children and do nothing. I cannot claim ignorance when I live in 2024 and see with my very eyes what unfolds before us. I cannot deny what my body perceives and conveys. It starts with the daily oppressions of caste and class, the demands of capitalism, the abuse of the natural world. It grows into political clashes and ongoing theft of land and resources. It heightens into genocide.

I remain eternally grateful for the profound practice of Iyengar Yoga, and my illustrious teachers, the best in the world, let's face it. And I am now poised to relaunch into the prakrtic mess which is this world. Send me. Use me. May I devote all my power to the healing of the people, the restoration of community, to confront wrongdoing, and do the needful. May I be imbued with wisdom and courage to be staunch on the path of right action.

 

SAMSKARA

 will i remember you in my next life?

when i enter samadhi
bound for the infinite beyond

when my body is a shell returned to the earth
to be consumed by creatures and microbes

when i forsake my name
my caste
my race
my creed
and fade deep into
the innermost zero

will my soul maintain the imprint
of my guru?

when i have learned the lessons in the spiritual realm
and prepare to return to the crush
of earthly life

the mud and monsoons
and packs of stray dogs
and honks of rickshaws

when i come back
as male or female or anyone beyond a binary
rich or poor
black or brown

will i somehow make my way back to this place?
will my body remember the stone steps?
will my feet curve around the staircase going up to the hall?
will i touch the feet of my guru as i enter the hall?

will my heart skip a beat when i hear the voice of my guru?
will my samskara cling to the memory of my teachers?
will my soul willingly come back into a flawed and painful embodiment
such that i seek you out
subject myself to the austerity of the teachings
lay myself down on a cool slate floor
or drape my spine across the familiar arc
of a backbender

when my fingertips graze the photographs of my guru
will my eyes recall your face?
will my stomach gurgle in response to a memory deep in my gut?
will my guru make himself known to me?

whatever grace has led me to this embodiment in this place and time
whatever grace has opened me to these teachings
brought me to the feet of my guru
brought me to my knees in utter humiity

will i regain that grace in my next life?
will my feet once again walk on these stone steps?
will i hear the call of my guru?
will i answer the call?

Cultivating Sattva

 I was born pitta, pitta, pitta. I came out kicking and screaming, and continued for decades. My parents shook their heads as they talked about the calmness of their two boys being disrupted when I was born. I had temper tantrums until age 7 or so. About what? In retrospect, I discern that my early childhood self sensed that something was really off in the world, but had no vocabulary, understanding, or context for that dissatisfaction. Some part of me just knew shit was fucked up and I had to speak out and do something about it!

But in the past few years, that pitta energy has shifted to more vata, as I've learned is typical in post-menopause. Gradually my body has become less dense and muscular, I can no longer claim to be the hungriest person in the room as my metabolism drastically slows, and I am learning, finally, bit by bit, to cultivate sattva in my mind and body.

I no longer thrive on intense, ongoing action. I seek places and periods of calmness. Instead of FOMO, I celebrate JOMO--joy of missing out. At age 60, I increasingly seek opportunities to bring along the younger generations, and pass everything I've gathered and learned onto them. I don't crave fame, attention, and stardom, and I don't feel the need to be in charge.

I started to notice these new tendencies this week, approaching classes at RIMYI. In past visits, I strove to extract every possible drop of learning from my brief time. I took copious notes, observed classes, assisted in the medical classes, spent time studying in the library, and everything else I could muster. This time, however, I had to come to terms with myself, and make the decision to step back, just a little.

My nervous system felt overwhelmed and rattled by the medical classes, which in past years, I would have jumped into with all four limbs. I found myself wanting to tuck into a corner like a tortoise. Not only was there, as Guruji described it, the "fish market" energy and chaos of so many students with so many different medical conditions, but also the straining of the visiting younger teachers to see, learn, and assist as much as possible. 

At first I berated myself for not putting myself out there and lending a hand. Why should I hold back? But that evening, I spent some time in self-reflection. On one hand, I owe it to my communities in Hawai`i, Detroit, and Korea, to assert myself, and extract as much learning as possible. Conceivably I even had some experience and insights that might be useful to the students here.

On the other hand, my body, especially my nervous system, was communicating to me to take it easy. The past nine months have been exhausting and incredibly stressful, given global conditions, especially in Palestine. I've been involved in the Palestinian rights struggle for years, and intensified my involvement since October 2023. This work can be incredibly frustrating and infuriating, and the heartbreak unrelenting. However, the struggle can also be uplifting and inspiring. I've met some incredible souls and powerful organizers, especially in the Hawaiian sovereignty and anti-militarism movements.

Devoting a month of study in India offered a necessary respite from this intensity. Not that I've totally backed off--I still start off each day with updates from Al Jazeera and Democracy Now, and finish each day with Palestinian films, interviews, and webinars. But for just a few weeks I've stepped back from the daily intensity of organizing campaigns and events, attending public hearings, sending emails, and making phone calls.

My body gave me permission to rest, instead of assist in the medical classes: It's ok, you don't have to save everyone. You're not indispensable. You don't have to do everything. I realized this is an opportunity to cultivate sattva--clarity, lightness, translucence--instead of continually building rajas as I've done in the past. Today on the way home from practice, I sat on a park bench, peeled a tangerine, and snacked on dhokla. I'm building aloha `āina with the trees here. I watch them and they watch me. I go home, eat a simple lunch, and take a nap. It's enough. In fact, it's plenty. I feel a quiet sense of santosha and deep, deep joy and gratitude, simply for this embodiment in this place and time. I feel tremendous love for my teachers and the profundity of the practice. May I regain fortitude, build patience and endurance, and continually expand my capacity for compassion. May I cultivate sattva, so I can be fully present with my people, with a soft heart and open mind.

Fever and forward folds

I have several ridiculous "rules" I've made up for myself. One is that if I injure myself, I am allowed only 1 day of pain. How can that be? you may ask. If I get hurt, I devote myself all day to alleviating the pain and addressing the source of the pain. Luckily I have enough training and experience to be able to read my body, understand what's happening, and get to the bottom of it, for the most part. It doesn't mean I spring back and resume normal activity on day 2, but it does mean that I can proceed cautiously, without pain or further injury.

Another rule I have is I am never ill for more than 2 days. Just as with a skeleto-muscular injury, when I succumb to a cold, I address it aggressively with all my immune boosters, such that symptoms typically wane within 2 days.

However last week I found myself at the mercy of my body and my circumstances. Since I decided to travel extremely lightly, I brought very few items of my usual regimen with me. I miss my turmeric ginger paste which I add to everything. I miss my home-brewed noni juice and my kombucha. Shortly after arriving, I developed a sore throat, which ripened into fever. 

Believe it or not, I started googling "Medicinal trees of India," certain that the `āina would come through for me. After all my flat is right next to Chittaranjan Vatika, an absolute treasure of greenery. But alas, I didn't have enough energy and wherewithal to teach myself the la`au of this new land under conditions of illness.

So I surrendered to my body, the fever, and let the heat burn off all my impurities. I spent 2 days in bed, missing dear Gulnaaz's Sunday morning class, and the whole next day of the intensive. Fever takes us into an altered state, my dreaming/waking accompanied by podcasts and Palestinian films, interspersed with ginger lemon tea and khichari. One forgets what it's like to be feverless, your whole existence defined by woozy, achy spells, and a desire to be horizontal. One also easily dips into worry: could this be dengue? strep throat? a sinus infection? will I ever get better?

Back at home I probably would not bother, but here in India, I felt a need to see a doctor. I got a few recommendations to no avail. At the ayurvedic clinic, no doctor was present that day. Another doctor's office was closed on Monday. The third doctor turns out to be semi-retired and not keeping consistent hours. I gave up, went home, and went back to bed.

On Tuesday I woke with a feeling of clarity and a burst of energy, and was able to summon myself back to class. That morning we worked on actively mobilizing in forward bends, assisting each other manually. After a bit I chose to lie back and observe. I watched my classmates spread, soften, elongate, and move into the deep lovely state of forward folding.

Both forward bends and illness require a high level of trust. But not just trust--context, knowledge, and understanding are needed. The hands-on assists would be considered aggressive from a USian point of view, possibly even invasive. Some of the assists even required use of the legs to help bring the trunk forward in a seated pose. Gripping our muscles out of fear or distrust when someone is assisting us invites injury. Instead, we have to do our part in assuming the āsana, then receive the additional movement from our partner to further the work. Similarly I had to trust my body to be healing itself through fever, not rush to lower it, and to ride it out, like a July monsoon. 

Still, I hope the rest of my travels are uneventful, healthwise. My roommates from New York arrive this week, the intensive lasts a few more days, and then I will enroll in daily classes for 2 more weeks. Illness reminds us we can take nothing for granted. I am incredibly grateful to be here, despite whatever stumbles on the path.

Just one of the aunties

Photo by Jaydeep Yargop

 

Today as I walked to morning class through Chittaranjan Vatika, the beautiful park near the Institute, I was remembering how Geetaji, later in life, presumably at the advice of a doctor, started taking exercise walks in the park. We recall how Geetaji experienced a number of health and bodily concerns that impacted her mobility and well-being in her 60s and 70s, and sometimes impeded her capacity to teach.

My heart warms to picture Geetaji walking in the park with her attendants, in tennis shoes and maybe those green sweatpants she wore in colder climates. Other than her yoga uniform (white polo shirt, kelly green bloomers) or her Brahmachari white sari, we never saw her in any other attire. In fact, as far as I could tell, she didn't leave the RIMYI compound very often. She had family and staff running errands for her, and she was, after all, our Queen Mother.

To picture dear Geetaji as so human--among her neighbors and the children playing, walking the loop at the park, amidst the trees and vines, perhaps huffing and puffing just a little, breaking a bit of a sweat--moves me deeply. She had the destiny of being her father's daughter, the eldest, and for years, his primary torchbearer.

Not only did she continue his teachings, but she evolved the teachings and the culture in so many ways, most notably systematizing the methodology through Preliminary Course and Intermediate Course, and customizing the practice for women's bodies and life cycles.

The last time I came to study at RIMYI was 2017, almost exactly a year before Geetaji's transition to the spiritual realm. On her birthday, she invited all of us into the Iyengar family home, to impart her wisdom directly to us, huddled on the floor and crowding the doorway. I've written about it here. This year, Geetaji's palpable absence has created space for so much new activity, and the next stage of RIMYI's evolution, here on the 50th anniversary of the Institute.

I recognized only a few of the teachers from online classes, and almost none of the students. The typical slew of Senior Teachers from around the world seemed to be absent. Maybe some have decided their Pune days are over? Too expensive, too cumbersome, too much health risk, better to stay online.... who knows? When Abhi invited us to sign up to say a few words of appreciation at Prashantji's birthday celebration, I thought folks would line up, but I was the only foreigner. Strangely, I have found myself to be one of the elders in the room.

I celebrate the changes at RIMYI, and I hope other Iyengar Yoga centers will follow the lead. The Senior Teachers of my generation and earlier only teach 1 class/week, with the exception of Prashantji. Otherwise the hall is filled with "youngsters," which I now define as below 50! Raya recently announced that he is 46 now--shocking, since I remember him as a "kid" with long wavy hair, getting ready to take a motorcycle trip to Goa. I also remember Abhi as a university student, practicing alongside her grandfather. Now they comprise the main leadership and mentoring for the up and coming teachers.

"I don't care who you are in your home country," Geetaji famously declared, "When you come here you are NOBODY." She said this because she had had enough of bold, brazen, arrogant Senior Teachers from Western countries coming to India to extract, and build up their own empires. Even though I'm a Senior Teacher back at home, I'm not extroverted nor assertive enough to be recognized as such here. I feel the youngsters simply regard me as an aunty. That's ok. This is their time to shine. I am here in full modesty and humility to learn, because the ocean of Yog is bottomless.

May we all bow when we hear the call to step aside. May we willingly and joyfully make space for generations to come. May we share abundantly without fear of depletion. Namaskar.

Immersing in the Global South

One of the reasons I love being in India, which is also why I love being in Hawai`i, is because these are regions of the Global South.

Hawai`i is an anomaly because geographically and culturally it has always been part of Oceania, Polynesia, and the Global South. But because it was assimilated into USA statehood, it is increasingly and economically associated with the Global North.

What does all of this mean? At this minute I am settled into a waiting area at the Mumbai airport.  It’s 3am. I’m surrounded by dark-skinned People of the Global Majority (PGM) in various stages of sleep or wake. They’re taking up 2-3+ seats each, with legs stretched out on baggage carts. They’re draped in dupatti and pashmina. They’ve taken their sandals off and they’re barefoot. There are entire families, as well as individuals and pairs. They speak many languages and dialects. People talk loudly, and laugh loudly, even at this hour. I am so thrilled and so comfortable in this mix of humanity.

What a contrast from the Tokyo airport, where they actively discourage this type of lounging by eliminating most places to sit. Unless you’re ticketed, security-checked, and waiting at the gate of your plane, or unless you’re monetized and paying for a spot in a restaurant, or a frequent flier lounge, forget it. Keep moving.

Even though Japan is populated by PGM, it identifies largely with the Global North, especially economically, and that’s what counts. I’m sure there are still places in Japan that are rough around the edges, gritty, and shaped by indigenous cultures, like Okinawa, but I was not exposed to any of it in my 24-hour layover.

The transition from GN to GS happened when I flew from Tokyo to Bangkok, then Bangkok to Mumbai. During the flight, like a caterpillar in a cocoon, you gotta shed your expectations and your colonial mindset to be suited for the Global South. You see the problems all over Hawai`i when settlers fail to do this. That’s when you get labeled as one haole. But haole is a mindset that can be adoped by anyone of any race

Perhaps GN/GS offers a helpful framework beyond race, class, caste, creed, East and West, and indigeneity. For instance, Zionist Europeans came from the GN into Western Asia with the goal of recreating their former lives in Palestine. From the 1948 Nakba onward, they destroyed historic Palestinian villages, with ageless stone architecture, and replaced them with cookie cutter subdivisions like ones we see in suburbs in Turtle Island and beyond—actually almost anywhere the GN has colonized the GS.

The GS does not prioritize speed or convenience or productivity. These values are proponents of capitalist extraction and white hegemony. Neither does the GS prioritize individuality over the collective. The GS accepts what the colonized mind may consider chaos, inefficiency, messiness, and circularity over linearity. Instead of quick fixes, PGM in the GS operate through a multigenerational lens which includes both the past and the future.

On our way from Mumbai to Pune, I noticed less garbage, less poverty than the last time I was here, 7 years ago. But then it occurred to me that maybe I was the one that had changed. That is, I didn’t notice the trash because I myself live in a pile of rubble!

I have increasingly identified with the Global South over the years, and now live on a farm in Waimānalo. This is a real farm, not a picture-perfect hobby farm. We have small scale, mostly organic agriculture. The house I live in was built on the footprint of a smaller house, by family and friends, which is to say…. it’s quirky. The hot water comes out of the cold spigot, lots of repurposed materials were used, and some stuff is still unfinished. The farm community is almost all Southeast Asian, mostly immigrants, Thai, Laotian, Filipino, Hawaiian, and Korean. Our motley crew does its best, and things don’t always go according to plan.

The rubble from the old house has not fully been cleared. Several of us have taken load after load after load to the dump, but there’s still a lot to go. The rubble bothered me like crazy at first, and I was determined to clean it all up, but the human mind and our senses are designed to prioritize. My mind soon put the rubble on the back burner until I barely noticed it. Upon closer examination, there are still piles of trash on sidewalks in India, and watch out for the dogshit, but it doesn’t bother me as much as it did when I first started coming here 20 years ago.

Trash reflects the capacity of governments to meet the consequences of capitalism, consumerism, overcrowding, and coloniality. Living in Detroit was also like living in the Global South within the US empire, and another place where people frequently complained about the trash and rubble, especially in Black neighborhoods. People in Palestine comment that settlements and Jewish districts are well lighted and clean, whereas Arab zones are neglected and dirty. Are Black folks and Palestinians “dirtier” than white folks? Are high caste Indians “cleaner” than non-caste Indians? Of course not. In fact, I would say PGM and working class/lower income people tend to be more fastidious and germ-phobic, out of necessity, culture, and pride.

The reason I live in a pile of rubble (I’m exaggerating to make a point—actually my home is wonderful and so is the farm!) is because our farm community is making a way out of no way, skills I learned in Detroit. My friend who owns the farm does not have deep pockets to draw from. She has managed to build a community and run a business, imperfect, messy, but we all do our best to make it work. The construction rubble would take thousands of dollars to professionally clean up, so we are doing our best to do it ourselves.

One American Iyengar Yoga teacher, here for the first time, commented that she questioned if she was ready to study at RIMYI, the homebase. I told her that āsana-wise, there’s no problem, but to be culturally ready is the bigger challenge. I know from talking to international students here that some struggle with the Indian ways of doing things, so different from Global North priority on efficiency, delusions of equality, and individualism.

In my community, we emphasize yoga as a practice of embodied ethics for the purpose of sovereignty and collective liberation. In order to do this, I must shed my colonial conditioning. If anything, nearly 30 years of Iyengar Yoga practice has taught me how to feel, observe, see patterns, and make connections. I remain unable and insensitive in so many ways, but pray that I continue to feel and see more and more, with humility, love, and courage.